


The Chair: Tall Tales of Short Dwarves

by TraceItalian



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comedy, Evil cults, Gen, Minor Body Horror, Story within a Story, scorpions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9399005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TraceItalian/pseuds/TraceItalian
Summary: When Boyland sadly passed away, he left the Bureau of Balance a legacy, even if the rest of the world has forgotten it. One night at the end of a restful evening, Killian fills Tres Horny Boys in on one of his many adventures. How will it end? What kind of man was Boyland, really? Can he survive an encounter with the cultists of Vecna? (Obviously yes but Killian's trying for some suspense here)Boyland makes a (visible) friend. Killian gets interrupted. Magnus is enthralled.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Yo. First fic here, er, it went a _bit_ longer than expected. I had a lot of fun doing a Nick Fury-esque boy's own adventure for Boyland, I might well do another at some point. Enjoy!_

Most nights on the moon are cold. Defining what counts as “night” exactly is a bit confusing, and even after Avi has gone through it a couple of times, Magnus doesn't totally follow. There just seems to be a point in time where everyone in the Bureau starts to slow down and go get meals, prepare for bed, and another set start to open their eyes and get to work. Magnus has wondered fairly often if any like, vampires or something would be able to keep going non-stop up here but he's not sure who to ask.  
He, Taako and Merle are in a common room in one of the dorm buildings. This space is mostly for guards and stuff, the regulators hang out here a lot. Carey and Killian are curled up on a couch, some dude he doesn't know who guards the void fish is poking at coals on the room's big fire. The three boys are here between training sessions – ever since they joined the order to keep the world safe from the grand relics they'd rarely had time to just chill out, so tonight was a delightful escape from training.  
  
There's an empty chair. A gnarled leather armchair, the cushions creak if you simply look at them. Dark reds and heavy brass buttons set into the arms. Just Merle's size, but as he went to sit in it he got weird looks from the rest of the Bureau members. Magnus thinks he gets why and it's killing him to not have confirmation. As the conversation lulls into silence – there's only so long you can talk about Baldur's Gate's Top Model – he coughs.  
  
“That was Boyland's chair, wasn't it?”  
  
Merle groans quietly, Taako rolls his eyes. Killian looks at Magnus and shrugs.  
“Yeah, man. I think one of his grandsons made it.”  
“I thought it was one of his husbands?” Carey said from under her arm. “I mean, it's kinda weird we're not sure which though, when you think about it.”  
“I don't really want to think about it, my dudes,” Taako says cheerfully.  
  
Magnus laughs uncomfortably, everyone in the room is giving the chair sad looks.  
“Well it's good quality,” he says, going back to what he knows best. “That leather's been worked nicely-”  
“Ain't leather man,” Killian says. She hops up from the couch and knocks on the cushions, making a rubbery thumping sound.  
“Scorpion carapace.”  
  
“Holy shit,” Merle says. “The hell kind of scorpion is that big? We saw this dumb crab thing on the Rockport Limited but that must have been gigantic.”  
Carey gives him a curious grin, she shifts on her seat, crossing her legs. Magnus leans forward, curious.  
“Oh boy did you never hear this story?” Carey says. “I'm telling you guys, it's amazing.”  
“What story?” Magnus asks. Carey and Killian look at each other. They grin. Taako does pretty much the opposite when he realises where this is going.  
“Well,” Killian begins. “We all know Boyland was here from the start, and right near that start...”

 

_Regulator Boyland in:_

  


# Escape From Deathdark Island

Boyland stared at the lock on the door, scratching his chin. The cage he was stuck in was cut deep into underground rock, weirdly warm as the veins of the island pulsed above and below, out of sight but never out of mind. The door was cast iron and definitely trapped, a magical glow hung around the keyhole bright as a damned candles night bush. He bit a thumb irritably. He knew these cultists were insanely evil deathgod worshippers but they could have left him his damn cigars, the animals. This was some dragonshit and no mistake.  


  


“Mr. Boyland sir? Are we going to die here?”  
He turned to look at the kid. A quavering little aquatic elf from the Sword Coast, Spenser they'd said they was called. Had already been in the room when cultists had tossed Boyland in, unconscious. Only way you'd get Boyland anywhere he didn't damn want to be. He gave the kid a sympathetic look.  
  
“How old are you, Spenser?”  
“Fi- fifty three, sir.”  
  
So godsdamn young. Probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time when these scum-sucking bastards had swooped outta nowhere, looking for fresh bodies to sacrifice. Boyland gave Spenser his friendliest smile, which still looked a bit like a box of whale meat forming a sine wave. He was aware the kid was grimace-smiling back at him but hell, Boyland weren't here to look pretty.  
  
“Well let me tell ya something, Spenser. Dying here is the last thing we're gonna do.”  
He paused as the blue face turned a shade more ashen.  
“I didn't mean it like... okay technically yes, that would be correct if we were to die here but we're not gonna. Because we'll stick together, okay?”  
The little elf hugged themselves and smiled, nodding at Boyland. That was probably the closest he was gonna get to cheering the kid up so he patted them on the knee and turned back to the locked door. There had to be some way to get it open. Kicking would just cook that trap off and Boyland had no way of know what that would do. They could always wait until a guard or cultist came by to get them out for the sacrifice but that'd lose you the advantage of stealth. Not that Boyland was great in the sneak attack department but he knew his way around a sneaking mission, and had no damned data on these people.  
  
He'd been bagged on the way back to the base Lucretia had set up. There'd been an incident – some great firey explosion had torn a village straight off the map, and there weren't no dragons around the area, it pretty much had to be the gauntlet. But there was no sign of it when they got there, just a mess of confused soot-covered villagers unable to explain what had happened to their homes and families. Magic Brian was still out there looking, somewhere. Boyland was making his way back to where they'd stashed the balloon when he'd stopped for a whiskey or two and the next thing he knew he was in this cell. Spenser had filled him in on the rest.  
He approached the door and started scrabbling at the hinges.  
  
“Tell you one thing, Spenser,” he said as he worked. “whoever these bastards are they rolled the wrong dwarf. We'll be outta here and on our way before you know it, or my name ain't Boyland.”  
  
And believe you me, his name was definitely Boyland.

\---

“Alright alright, his name was Boyland, we get it jeez,” Taako says. Killain shrugs.  
“Just telling it like I was told it, bro. Anyways, so as they looked at the lock...”

\---

There was a sound of footsteps. Boyland rolled his eyes. Well, at least they'd have a way out now. A relief in some ways but he reckoned he could have managed some sweet Fantasy McGuyver bullshit on those hinges if they'd needed to. He put a finger to his lips and looked at Spenser as a key rattled in the lock.  
The cultist that slid into the room was tall and skeletal, long bony fingers held the keys to the room in one hand and a curved dagger in the other. He slammed the door shut behind himself and sneered at Boyland and Spenser, his lips pulling back to reveal jewelled teeth, black stones winking in the cell's torchlight.  
“Time's up,” he said, twirling the dagger. He shuffled further into the room, Spenser backed away into a corner, looking at him fearfully. Boyland stood his ground, watching the man carefully. These cultists, always screwing up everything for everyone. Couldn't go to the damn Fantasy Costco without some cultist winding up outside trying to steal some artifact or sacrifice a virgin or something. No sense of propriety.  
  
“You two have been selected for a very special task,” the cultist continued. “our dark master Vecna requires a great many deaths before he can pass over into this realm. You have been chosen to bring his presence here, and save us all.”  
He approached Spenser, smiling. “Two last sacrifices to cure the world of its accursed light.”  
Boyland swept forwards, approaching the cultist. He held a hand up, adopting a perplexed smile. He gestured at the locked door.  
  
“Hold yer horses there son, I just got a couple of questions first. I just wanna say I love the lock. Very well made.”  
The cultist paused. Was he blushing a little? Hard to tell under that cowl.  
“Oh. Uhm. Oh. Thanks, my cousin made it.”  
“And a damned fine job they did too. Is that worked orichalcum? You can't get that for love nor money these days where I'm from, superb work.”  
Spenser looked at Boyland confused, but he continued complimenting the lock, the cultist nodding and elaborating on his points.  
“So what the hell does the trap do, might I ask?”  
The cultist looked at Boyland and pursed his lips. Then he shrugged, the two prisoners were about to be sacrificed anyway, no harm in telling him.  
“It's a touch spell,” he said proudly. “Try to pick it or force it and you'll be hit with a shocking grasp so powerful it fries your brain like that,” he snapped his fingers. “Unless you have the key of course.”  
  
Boyland grinned.  
“So it'd go off if you were to hit it like... **so**.”  
  
He barreled forward, headbutting the cultist in the stomach and forcing him backwards at speed. The man tumbled and squealed, he went flying and collided face first with the lock on the door.  
There was a tremendous crackling roar from the door and a flash of light that blinded both prisoners, followed by a loud bang and thump. As the black spots faded from Boyland's eyes he could see the remains of the cultist, still aflame, smeared against the opposite wall. He walked over casually and picked the keys up alongside the contents of the cultist's disintegrated pockets including – mercy be – a pack of cigars. He paused to light one on the burning body and took a couple of puffs.  
“Right,” he said. “You cusses have screwed up majorly. Let's get going, kid.”

\---

“Didn't they shackle them?”  
Killian blinks at Magnus.  
“Huh?”  
“I'm just saying,” he shifts in his seat “if I was a Vesper cultist looking to sacrifice people, I'd shackle them.”  
“I think they did,” Carey said to Killian, ruefully. Killian shook her head.  
“Okay, okay, they probably did. Anyway...”

\---

The shackles fell from Boyland's wrists with a clunk. He puffed on his cigar with a smile.  
“Nice work, kid.”  
Spenser smiled shyly.  
“Thank you, sir. I've always been good at holding things with my feet, so unlocking these shackles we always had with that man's keys was child's play.”  
Boyland tapped out ash over the larger pile of ashes the cultist had become.  
“That was... a weird sentence, Spenser, but still, well done. Now we gotta get out of here.”  
  
They left the room hurriedly, locking it behind them. It wouldn't be long before the cultists wondered where their fellow was, and the sacrifices. So they had to get going.  
The tunnels were long and winding, no surface was visible. That same warmth was above and below, the power of the place obvious from the low hum, louder still in the tunnels. They needed to get up, out into the surface, and a weapon bigger than the tiny dagger he'd given Spenser. Boyland hustled up the tunnel, watching for danger. They passed countless other cells, all empty. This god Vecna must demand a lot of bodies. His lip curled and he let out an angry cloud of smoke. It was scumbags like these that had always got to him. Back in his adventuring days he'd never taken anything more personal than the sacrifice of sentient beings. Behind him the kid was flagging, giving the rooms spooked looks, the dagger dangling unprofessionally from his fingers.  
  
“What you got waiting for you back home, Spenser?” he asked as they marched.  
“I... I'm a baker, sir. I do the best cinnamon swirls in Faerûn. I got nothing waiting at home beyond a stone oven and re-runs of Sizzle it Up.”  
“Hey, your profession's somethin'. Take pride in your strengths, Spenser. My fifth daughter loves that show, too.” (Taako is finally paying attenion as Killian recites this in Boyland's gravelly voice, he moves closer to the action; _“Go onnn.”_ )  
“It sure is quality programming sir, the host has such a good taste in fashion! I'm sure he's a great guy that never interrupts anyone when they're in the middle of telling a story.”  
“I bet so too,” Boyland replied, focused on the tunnel ahead. The elf was clearly delirious with fear by now, but the talking was doing him good, even if it was nonsense. You had to keep your team's spirits up in situations like this.  
  
And before too long there was a hammering of footsteps ahead. They'd finally come to investigate. Boyland grinned. Good. He put a hand out behind himself, waving it at Spenser.  
“Easy there kid, looks like we got company.”  
  
It was then that a gaggle of cultists, tooled up to the nines with scythes and clubs rounded the corner. All of them wore the same black-jewelled teeth and cold expressions of the man they'd first met, all of them had their hoods throw back and Boyland could see a series of studs driven into each skull. Humans, to the last man. Boyland widened his stance and folded his arms.  
  
“They got us outnumbered, the poor bastards,” he said.  
(“Holy shit this is gonna be good,” Magnus says, hands on his knees.)  
  
Boyland hit the cultists like a damn wrecking ball. The skinny human scumfucks went flying, weapons clattering as they struggled to get themselves in order, swinging at where he'd just been, he tucked and rolled away, cigar still lit. As the cultists got back to their feet they started to round on a terrified-looking Spenser, holding the dagger out like a wand. Close, but no cigar. Boyland looked carefully at the cultists, figuring out the biggest threat to his new buddy. Speaking of cigars...  
He lunged forward like a viper, aiming for the big cultist with the spikey cudgel he was swinging at Spenser with deadly force. As Boyland moved he spat the cigar into his hand and jammed it into the cultit's neck, putting it out with a fizzle and hiss of cooking meat, the man screamed and Boyland kicked his knee out, smashing him to the ground and stealing his cudgel. Behind him another cultist raised their scythe.  
  
Too late, nothing he could do, he started to move...  
  
And Spenser was there, jamming the dagger into the man's armpit with a small shriek. They moved into the blow, pushing the man back to the floor and taking the scythe from him. Boyland grinned, flipping another cigar into the air and catching it in his teeth. He threw a fist at the next robed cultist to come at them, one-twoing him with a savage cudel blow.  
“Nice moves, kid! Let's take care of these assholes.”  
  
What followed was a savage and totally badass series of swings, punches, kicks, gouges and various incredibly violent verbs in quick succession. The terrible twosome were like a force of nature against the terrified minions of the dread lich god.  
Spenser proved a formidable warrior with the scythe, gaining in confidence with each swing, squeals and shrieks turning to snarls and yells. It didn't take long before the last of the robed men were fleeing the scene, Boyland and Spenser thundering after them. No way these bozos were getting away.  
They ran up the stairs as fast as they could, Boyland chomping the unlit cigar near in two. The tunnel walls became unbearably hot in places and as they got closer to the surface the place pulsed impossibly with nightmarish power. Following after the cultists they plunged out an entrance and into daylight. Boyland paused at the lip of the cave, looking out at the world around them, blinking with surprise.  
  
“Merlin's fucking beard,” he said.  


It wasn't so much an island as it was a floating fortress. The tiny mountains curved around a gigantic cultish temple filled with hideous statues and viscious spires stabbing at the clouds aggressively. Beyond them at the very centre of the island a volano steamed, a boiling mass of glowing green liquid inside it. Ash coloured rocks scattered the landscape and a twisting path of metal catwalks clung to the sheer cliff face Boyland and Spenser had emerged from, the running cultists far in the distance. A similar series of walkways were constructed around the volcano, a sacrificial diving board the centrepiece of the edifice. Worst of all in Boyland's mind was the elevator at the base of the structure, a dark perversion of the miracle technology the Miller family had gifted the world. It took him a moment longer to realise the island wasn't even in the sea, but instead floated miles above Faerûn. Boyland looked at the horrific landscape thoughtfully.  
  
“Well,” he said “looks like we got our work cut out.”

\---

Taako arches an eyebrow.  
“Did you just _say_ “dramatic pause”?”  
Killian shrugs.  
Taako nods. “Totally fair, I can't say I wouldn't. You do you.”

\---

They hit the temple at high speed, Spenser clutching the scythe to his chest awkwardly, Boyland having dispensed the cudgel over the side of one of the catwalks. Violently, alongside a sentry that had been on duty. Fortunately he'd caught the guard's matches and was once more puffing away contentedly as they entered the central hall of the massive monument to Vecna's evil.  
  
The vast central chamber was like nothing Boyland had ever seen. Well obviously, he'd seen big evil temples before. But the particular construction of this one was alien to the world, monsters that had no frame of reference, peculiar nonsense angles and columns seemingly constructed from what could only have been titanic bones. Spenser gaped at the insane horror of the place, dropping his scythe with a clatter. Boyland gritted his teeth and cracked his knuckles.  
“Ugly décor.”  
  
As they approached the central dais both of them were lit up by a sickly green glow from the centre of the room. A vast fissure in the temple floor revealed the veins of the island; that pulsing green acid that fed the volcano and flowed in thick rivers through the stone. There was something deeply profane to this place.  
As they reached the dais, another robed figure emerged from a side door and glided slowly towards them. Of all the servants of Vecna, this was the tallest. He wore a heavy skull mask, his hood drooping low on his robe, a single eye socket visible in the mask. In one hand, a serrated sickle, the other was withered and rotted. The Eye of Vecna.  
  
“Ah, my dear sacrifices. We meet at last.”  
His voice was sing-song and uneven, vocal chords worn and ragged from ritual screams. Boyland stood in front of Spenser protectively.  
“You'd be the jerk in charge, I take it?” he said dismissively. The Eye laughed.  
“Then you'd be taking it wrong. Vecna is in charge here, I am merely his cipher. You've caused us a lot of trouble, my friend.”  
“Yeah,” Boyland said “we're about to cause you a whole lot more.”  
Neither Boyland nor Spenser could see it, but the Eye smiled a thin-lipped smile beneath his skull mask, he clasped his hands behind his back.  
“Oh I seriously doubt that,” he said, and that's when the scorpion arrived.  
  
It pulled its carapaced body from the depths of the acid river, each of its eight feet plunging into the stone of the temple. Its gigantic pincers clacked like the crashing of boulders, like the meeting of continents, the breaking of heavens. The dark red scorpion towered over both escapees, looking at them hungrily. Boyland's cigar dropped from his lips.  
“Sweet Istus,” he said. “That's pretty fucking big.”  
“Size isn't everything,” Spenser added. “But that's not amazingly comforting right now, I have to admit.”  
  
It lashed out with a claw that the Eye leaped onto before clambering up its joints and sitting astride the great monster's head. He started laughing. They ran.  
  
The monstrous scorpion shattered pillars and crates and entire buildings in its pursuit of Boyland and Spenser. For their part they plunged through the mess of buildings surrounding the temple, dodging crossbow fire from the other cultists as Boyland went through the process of lighting a new cigar and desperately searching somewhere, anywhere for a weapon. He managed to lift two hand-crossbows from a pair of idiot guards that made the mistake of crossing their path while Spenser was in full wailing dervish mode, his scythe now an old friend. Boyland tucked and rolled, firing bolts expertly at the passing guards and once or twice ineffectually at the loathsome scorpion's armour.  
  
As they rounded a corner its stinger erupted with energy and a beam of terrifying red light cleft an outhouse in two mere inches from where Boyland and Spenser hid. They plunged into the building it hadn't destroyed and hustled up the stairs, Boyland shouldering guards out their way and off into the ruins of the building. Boyland was out of crossbow bolts already, he jammed one of the handbows into the chest of a cultist and flipped him out the window, snatching his cutlass as he did so. A light came on in Boyland's eyes and he danced up the stairs, blade clashing majestically with the cultists between them and the roof.  
  
“Sir- Mr. Boyland, why are we going this way?” Spenser called over the din of battle.  
“Got... an... idea,” Boyland said, grunting with exertion as he swung the cutlass this way and that. They pushed their way up the stairs and stumbled out onto the flat roof of the building, the temple complex a smoking ruin around them. The scorpion started clacking eagerly as it saw them again, its tail lighting slowly up. Boyland jammed the cutlass between his teeth and ran, and jumped.  
  
And landed, he hit the back of the scorpion and it mewled curiously, no longer preparing to stab with its tail lest it hit the Eye of Vecna astride it. There was a quieter thud as Spenser followed. The Eye looked at the pair angrily.  
“You've proved... more difficult to kill than anticipated. No matter. Sacrifices it is, then.”  
  
He snapped his fingers and the scorpion, heeding his command, rattled up the volcano's side at incredible speed. Boyland started to slide backwards off the creature but he jammed his boots firmly between pieces of carapace and managed to stay put as it rocketed up the slope. Spenser started to tumble so he caught the kid by the back of their shirt, desperately holding on. The Eye elegantly approached them, drawing a sabre in his withered hand.  
Steel met steel as the Eye lunged, Boyland parried and messily the pair dueled their every move shaken and tested by the lumbering of the scorpion. Their swords locked and scraped, the wretched skull mask was barely inches from Boyland.  
  
“Why... won't... you... _die?!_ ” snarled the Eye.  
“I'm... bad... at... instructions,” Boyland replied, swinging again.  
By the time they reached the top of the volcano they were both exhausted and slid from the scorpion onto the catwalk with a clatter. Spenser remained slumped on its docile back as the Eye and Boyland picked themselves up and continued the swordfight, now making generous use of footing that wasn't swinging wildly under them. The Eye put up an excellent fight and landed a new exciting scar on Boyland's face, knocking him to the ground.  
“Finally. Time to die, dwarf.” The Eye stood over Boyland, sword at his throat. The clouds had blackened behind him, preparing for rain. A light blossomed in the new darkness behind the Eye. Boyland smiled.  
“Not quite yet, my man,” he said. The Eye looked around, confused.  
  
Stood atop the scorpion, one hand on its tail, a scythe deep in its brain stood a grinning, blood-stained Spenser. The tail had already warmed up.  
“Who the hell **are** you people?” the Eye said despairingly. Boyland lit a cigar from his position on the ground.  
“The name's Land. Boyland. That there's Spenser. The lady you're about to meet is called the Raven Queen. Gods bless.”  
  
The scorpion's tail erupted and the Eye of Vecna was lost in a brilliant column of energy. His ashes showered the volcanic crater. Which started rumbling. Spenser gulped.  
“How... do we get out of this, Mr. Boyland? Quite the pickle if that thing explodes.”  
Boyland stood, puffing on his cigar thoughtfully. The catwalk around him was being shaken to piecs and bubbles formed and popped in the dense acid of the volcano. He looked up at Spenser.  
“You know... didn't that thing come from the acid?”  
Spenser smiled weakly. Boyland looked around the catwalk, ready to hop up onto the scorpion and, if this plan went poorly, meet his maker. Before he did his foot caught something. Alongside the Eye's smoking sandals was a small object he'd dropped in the fight. A stone of farspeech. Boyland's stone of farspeech.  
“Wow. That was contrived. Lucky though,” Boyland said, plucking the stone from the grating it had lodged in. “This is legit how I told it to Killian though,” he added as he jumped up onto the scorpion. Spenser looked at him uneasily.  
“Sir, are you sure this will wo-  
The volcano erupted.  


The pair were exploded into the air as the island started to pull itself apart behind them, its mission in this realm a failure. Huge chunks of rock fell from the place, showering the sea below. The acid burst carried Boyland, Spenser and the dying Scorpion far from the island, flying downwards, the ground miles below. Boyland casually held the stone to his lips and said “Killian? Could you do me a favour. Sort of immediately.”

 

Spenser looked out at the island from the basket of the balloon, which was mostly taken up by plates of carapace that had caught Boyland's fancy. He sat against them with a satisfied expression, watching the island slope grouchily beneath the waves. Killian checked over her crossbow, looking a tad disappointed she hadn't gotten to use it.  
  
“That was a hell of a thing,” Spenser said distantly. Boyland nodded.  
“You did great, kiddo. If your baking is as good as your destroying evil religions, you're well on your way to fame and fortune.”  
Spenser blushed a deeper shade of blue. They nodded at Boyland respectfully.  
“Mr. Boyland, will you be my new dad?”  
Boyland waved a hand vaguely.  
“Sure thing, you've earned it. Welcome to the family.”  
Killian looked at him. He grinned. No way in hell Lucretia would believe any of this.

\---

“And she still doesn't,” Carey adds at the end. Killian laughs and shoves her.  
“That doesn't matter, I know what I saw,” she says. “Even if the rest was bullshit, the kid was real and the island did explode.”  
Magnus grins.  
“That was,” he says “ _amazing._ ”  
Taako waves a hand.  
“Eh, it was okay. Three outta five.”  
  
Merle's fallen asleep. The other two boys get to their feet, readying to return to their rooms. There's a new relic to train for, always. Need to be at their best. Magnus pauses at the door, looking at Carey and Killian.  
  
“So that kid... Spenser. They won't remember Boyland anymore, will they?”  
Carey and Killian exchange looks.  
“No Magnus, they won't,” Killian says.  
He smiles sadly in response.  
“Ah. I wonder how they remember it all, then. Must be weird.”  
Killian nods. She gives Magnus a reassuring smile.  
“Hey. The rest of the world's forgotten, but we'll remember. Always.”  
  
Magnus nods and leaves the room, and Carey, and Killian. They sit together by the fire. The leather chair opposite them looks comfortably worn, and a bit brighter from the telling. They slowly fall to sleep by the flames.


End file.
